As Brant emerged from the underbrush he suddenly beheld a fair vision of young womanhood resting on the grassy bank just before him.  She was partially reclining, as if startled by his unannounced approach, her face turned toward him, one hand grasping an open book, the other shading her eyes from the glare of the sun.  Something in the graceful poise, the piquant, uplifted face, the dark gloss of heavy hair, and the unfrightened gaze held him speechless until the picture had been impressed forever upon his memory.  He beheld a girl on the verge of womanhood, fair of skin, the red glow of health flushing her cheeks, the lips parted in surprise, the sleeve fallen back from one white, rounded arm, the eyes honest, sincere, mysterious.  She recognized him with a glance, and her lips closed as she remembered how and when they had met before.  But there was no answering recollection within his eyes, only admiration—­nothing clung about this Naiad to remind him of a neglected waif of the garrison.  She read all this in his face, and the lines about her mouth changed quickly into a slightly quizzical smile, her eyes brightening.

“You should at least have knocked, sir,” she ventured, sitting up on the grassy bank, the better to confront him, “before intruding thus uninvited.”

He lifted his somewhat dingy scouting hat and bowed humbly.

“I perceived no door giving warning that I approached such presence, and the first shock of surprise was perhaps as great to me as to you.  Yet, now that I have blundered thus far, I beseech that I be permitted to venture upon yet another step.”

She sat looking at him, a trim, soldierly figure, his face young and pleasant to gaze upon, and her dark eyes sensibly softened.

“What step?”

“To tarry for a moment beside the divinity of this wilderness.”

She laughed with open frankness, her white teeth sparkling behind the red, parted lips.

“Perhaps you may, if you will first consent to be sensible,” she said, with returning gravity; “and I reserve the right to turn you away whenever you begin to talk or act foolish.  If you accept these conditions, you may sit down.”

He seated himself upon the soft grass ledge, retaining the hat in his hands.  “You must be an odd sort of a girl,” he commented, soberly, “not to welcome an honest expression of admiration.”

“Oh, was that it?  Then I duly bow my acknowledgment.  I took your words for one of those silly compliments by which men believe they honor women.”

He glanced curiously aside at her half-averted face.  “At first sight I had supposed you scarcely more than a mere girl, but now you speak like a woman wearied of the world, utterly condemning all complimentary phrases.”

“Indeed, no; not if they be sincerely expressed as between man and man.”

“How is it as between man and woman?”